Everywhere I turn people die. You would think it would play havoc with my
emotions, but I've managed to settle it down into a steady rhythmic blend of
sadness and grief. I do wonder sometimes why these deaths, and ...just
everything, always happen last week; I remember concluding last week that my
short term memory must be dangerously non-existent, but my mid and long term
memory are as naturally brilliant as the rest of me - insect bite on the
palm of my hand notwithstanding.
"Restaurants? What the fuck do I need restaurants for? It's not like I
haven't got any food at home." ...ah. I didn't have food at home. Just once
I'd like to get up on my high horse and not find out I've actually climbed
inside its rectum. Restaurants, I apologise, I do need you, I did need you.
Tense? Nope, just chewing my wrist. If you'd like to eat in the Indian
restaurant turn to page 27. If you'd like to eat in the Chinese restaurant
turn to page 27 and substitute the word 'Indian' for 'Chinese' and 'troll,
HP 24' for 'band of four wraiths, HP 2 each'. If you wish to eat in neither
the Indian nor the Chinese restaurant, turn to page 400, the death page, the
one you always choose not to turn to, where you'll die of starvation. If you
wish to cheat and go back to your last choice, it was on page 293.
Page 27
I sat, I ordered, I ate. "Help! Does anyone know first aid?" came the cry
for first aid from across the restaurant. "This man is choking... he's
passed out. His lips are probably turning blue under the lipstick. Quick,
someone do something."
"I know first aid," I explained calmly - it's true, I do: I have performed
eight emergency tracheotomies, almost all warranted, almost all would have
died anyway. "...But," I continued, "I have a Do Nut [it's how the doctor
pronounced it] Resuscitate order on my medical records," I continued
further. "I'd love to help you, really I would; I'd love to help your friend
even more, but doctor's orders y'see?"
In times of stress, it's amazing how logical people get, how willing they
are to debate every single little point in the hope it might save their
dining companion. This woman was one such petty arse. I never found out her
name so I'll call her Petty Arse; it suits her. Petty Arse saw fit to
question my medical records... MY medical records, the cheek of it. "That's
you that doesn't get resuscitated, it doesn't mean you're not allowed to
resuscitate someone else. Now save him, save him..."
"Save who?"
"Him. The bombardier."
"I'm the bombardier."
"Then save him, save him."
"I told you, I can't save your... what? Father? Grandfather? Husband? ..."
"Pontiff."
"I can't save your ...Pontiff? That's the Pope? What's he doing in a
restaurant in England? I'd like to think I keep reasonably up to date with
where the Pope is, and I don't remember anything in his itinerary about
eating in a restaurant in England."
"He likes to do this from time to time: dress up as a normal person, mingle
amongst his flock like a farmer does. Or a priest. See what life's like for
people on the other side of the Vatican walls, get in touch with the common
man, maybe meet a nice common woman and take her to a restaurant - it's
lonely at the top, so I'm told."
"That's beautiful. Someone should make a film about it, really they should.
And I'd love to save him, save him, really truly, but like I said, I have
this Do Nut Resuscitate order hanging over my head like the sword to
Damascus. It doesn't say Do Nut Resuscitate Me, it says Do Nut Resuscitate.
I can't go against a doctor's wishes, even with safe words. Sorry. My food's
getting cold. I hope you find someone who can help you. Try ringing for an
ambulance, I hear they often help."
"He'll be dead before the ambulance arrives. The Catholic church will be
thrown into turmoil, the restaurant will have to close for the night, I'll
have all sorts of explaining to do. I should never have let him order the
lobster. ...It's all my fault. It's all my fault. What was I thinking? Why
would you go to an Indian restaurant and order the lobster? That's just
asking for trouble. Please help me, Obi Wan, you're my only hope." (Leia? No
thanks; I don't want the Pope's leftovers, ...well, maybe just a quick munch
on the lobster).
"Your heart-tugging doesn't cut the mustard with me, missy harlot," I
explained, as callously as a chronic masturbator with a penis made of
sandpaper. "I will not go against my doctor's orders. Good day."
"...It's... it's..." She was racking her brains for yet another petty
argument to trouble me with. She was persistent, I'll give her that. If she
spoiled my meal any further I resolved to order some herpes from the
internet and give her that too. "...It's not your doctor's orders: you've
asked your doctor to put the Do Nut Resuscitate order on your medical
records for you. You wouldn't be going against your doctor's wishes, you'd
just be momentarily changing your mind to save the life of a dear, sweet
man. Please help him. Who knows what brain damage is being done by your
dilly-dallying? Just, please, for me, save him."
"Just because I asked for the Do Nut Resuscitate order..." Actually I hadn't
asked for it: a friend and I had each signed power of attorney over to the
other to create a daring, some say dangerously foolhardy, legal precedent.
The Do Nut Resuscitate order was his response to me selling his house and
business out from under him. I chose not to mention this so as not to
provide her with more fuel for her petty argument gun that shoots out
petrol, not bullets. "...doesn't mean that it doesn't also include the
doctor's concurrence. By way of an example, and in the vain hope that you
might leave me alone - I am rather hungry, you see - a knife-thrower friend
of mine asked his doctor to put a Do Nut Throw Knives order on his medical
records. It seems he wasn't handling the stress of performing in front of
all those people, and was having an increasingly hard time laughing off the
bloody errors as just part of the act. He had no self control, needed the
money, and knew in himself that he would continue to apply for knife
throwing jobs, but he also knew that his prospective employers would be
legally obligated to check his medical records. The doctor agreed with him
that he shouldn't be throwing knives in his current condition, and so, after
being requested to do so by my friend, the doctor concurred with the amateur
diagnosis and put a Do Nut Throw Knives order on his medical records. See?
...Waiter? Excuse me... yes... this woman is bothering me. ...Thank you. I
believe also that there is a man dying over there. An ambulance might be an
appropriate course of action. ...Not at all. ...Yes, it's lovely, thanks."
I never saw the woman again. The ambulance came and pronounced the man dead;
the woman, being the petty arse that she was, wanted a second opinion from
the paramedics, and then a third opinion from a doctor. I did see the Pope
again, on television, doing something in Rome a few weeks later. He looked
well. Was the man in the restaurant really the Pope? Did he die? Did the
Catholic church pay for extensive plastic surgery on a troll, HP 24?
If the man in the restaurant wasn't really the Pope, turn to page 336.
If the Pope didn't really die, turn to page 92.
If the Catholic church paid for extensive plastic surgery on a troll, HP 24,
turn to page 151.
If you wish to try the lobster, turn to page 400.